


Amor Vetiti

by ReyloBrit



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Alternate Universe - Historical, Animal Death, F/M, Forbidden Love, Gladiator Games, Gladiators, Injury, Kissing, Kylo is not a virgin, Kylo's company is sold to rich women, Loss of Virginity, One Shot, Pregnancy, Priestesses, Romance, Romantic Angst, Sex, Smut, Soft Kylo Ren, Suicidal Thoughts, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Violence, Virgin Rey (Star Wars), We see one such encounter, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24913783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReyloBrit/pseuds/ReyloBrit
Summary: The Gladiator Champion, Kylo Ren, cannot shake the image of the Priestess from his mind. It is forbidden to talk with her. They would both be whipped. But he can look, can't he? There's no harm in simply looking....
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 129
Kudos: 611
Collections: Dev’s Reylo Favorites, Reylo Theme Event Summer





	Amor Vetiti

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Запретная любовь](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25454113) by [Elafira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elafira/pseuds/Elafira)



> This one shot is set in an Ancient Greece/ Rome Alternate Universe. The way of life is violent so while this is a soft and romantic fic (hopefully!), please do mind the tags.
> 
> Thank you to Ferasha for the Moodie and my lovely Graveyarders for the critique! You guys are the best <3

The heavens pour their grief down upon the earth, the roof of the temple pummeled by the battering rain drops, the world outside streaked wet with water.

Rey rubs the back of her hand around her neck, swiping away the beads of moisture. The hour is late and the air hangs heavy as she scuttles around the temple collecting up the parcels of offerings left by the people. She glances at her tired feet as she moves, her toenails painted the colour of coral but the leather of her sandals worn, the straps close to snapping. In a moment, perhaps she can sit and unwrap each bundle, imagining the prayer the person made when they left their gift. But before she begins the evening's ritual, she hears the slap of many pairs of wet sandals on the stone slab at the entrance. She scurries back, hiding herself in the recesses of the temple. The priestesses can only be seen during the ceremonies, they must remain out of sight at all other times. The invisible hands of the Goddess.

The men that enter are guards, heavily armoured, and she frowns - it is an affront to bring weapons into the house of the Goddess. But she can do nothing about it - one lone woman against many men. They stop by the door, blocking it with their bodies and only then does she spot the gladiator champion dressed in his fighting robes.

His master has allowed him to come and make an offering to the Goddess before the fight tomorrow - the one held in her name. He will beg for her favour. It is as much in his master's interests that he obtains it, as his own. He is a valuable commodity, well fed, well attended. He earns his master good money.

This annual game, to honour the strength of the Goddess and to offer blood of men as tribute to her, is one of the few reasons Rey may leave the temple. But despite her lack of familiarity with the names and faces of the champions, she knows who he is. She knows by his stature and the dark helmet he wears. 

She remembers him. 

And she remembers the murmur of a thousand voices racing around the arena as a dry wind whipped dust into her face and the hot sun beat down on her head; the stink of fresh sweat mingling with the smell of old blood strong in her nose. 

She remembers the heavy metal gate lift with a grind of metal and the crowd erupt, stamping their feet. 

And she remembers the Champion Kylo Ren stepping into the fierce light, the ebony metal of his helmet glinting brightly, his black cape bellowing as he strode forward, his sword raised high in the sky as the people chanted his name. 

From her seat, high on the arena walls, the men fighting on the dusty stadium floor had appeared like miniature figures, the wooden kind she'd seen children play with in the streets. And yet, even from there, she’d seen how the champion gladiator towered above the rest, a head taller, his torso wide and strong. 

His sword had sliced through skin and sky with equal ease, blood splattering his shield, his limbs shiny with sweat, making easy work of his opponents, no mercy shown, the killing cold and efficient. He cared not about giving the crowd a show, he wanted it over with quickly. 

Now, tucked behind a column, the stone cool against her hands, Rey watches him climb the temple's steps and stride to stand before the great stature of the beloved Goddess. He peers up, then drops to one knee, pulling the helmet from his head.

Rey gasps. 

They say he's a monster - strong as a bull, fast as a lion, blood thirsty as a wolf. They say his mother lay with a beast, that he wears a face of hideous deformity - mangled flesh, horns and fangs. It's why he never removes his helmet.

But they're wrong.

In the flickering candle light, she sees his plump red lips, his dark eyes, the paleness of his body and his dark mane of hair, thick and waved and falling to his shoulders. The bones beneath his face are expertly chiseled and carved - he is a piece of art. Perfect in his imperfections - his features bent and crooked and magnified. 

Bowing his head, his lips move in whispered prayer and he places a small parcel by the feet of the Goddess. He pauses, lowering down further and clasping at the statue's ankles, kissing each of her toes. 

Rey's breath thunders in the silence. Her cheeks burn. She has stumbled upon something she ought not to see - something personal and raw. She wishes to turn and hide away but curiosity keeps her from leaving. She has never seen anything as magnificent as he. Despite the scars that crisscross his body, and the ugly appearance of his leather clothing, she can't stop her eyes from skitting over the contours of his muscular chest, his strong arms, his firm legs. He seems more god than man and she scolds herself for the sinful thought.

The gladiator stands and stalks away, then halts. He tilts his head, his body suddenly alert, then he sweeps his head around quickly and catches her gaze. He stares at her. His eyes are a rich brown and the air catches in her throat. For a moment she thinks he will pounce, rush at her, fling her to the ground and devour her. Instead he holds her steady with his eyes, pinning her to the spot, his face betraying nothing. They remain locked like this for a heart beat, for an eternity. And then he turns away, leaving her to freefall through empty space.

….

Bodies lie strewn around his feet, as his shoulders heave and the sour air singes his lungs. The spit in his mouth burns metallic, and the hot metal of his armour scolds his skin. Blood streams down the blade of his sword and drips onto the dusty ground. Around him the people bellow; the sound a painful pressure inside his skull. His opponent slumps forward equally exhausted, neither have anything more to give.

The gladiator shades his eyes against the midday sun, and glances up towards the box with the Emperor. The man sits on his throne, shaded from the heat, a small boy fanning him with long sweeps of a palm. Kylo waits for the man's decision, caring little if he lives or dies. It makes no difference to him. Life is hell, death will be no different.

The Emperor plays to the crowd raising his hands to ask for their opinion. Kylo's body aches with weariness. His eyes float lazily over the faces in the crowd and then he spots her, sitting in a row with the priestesses of the temple, a light gauze draped over the crown of her head. It is her, he knows it. Even over the distance he recognises the piercing eyes, a colour that is neither the green of leaves nor the brown of earth. Her figure is slight, but her countenance alert. He knows a fighter when he sees one. It's what's kept him alive all these years, understanding the ones who will fight and the ones who will flee.

The crowd roars and he looks back to the emperor. Thumbs up. He will live another day. He glances back to the girl and she nods; the tiniest of movements. Almost imperceivable.

Suddenly he feels more alive than he has ever done before. 

….

It is forbidden to speak with a priestess from the Temple of the Goddess. Their lives belong to her - their minds and their bodies too. They are slaves like he is, serving a different kind of master.

If he tries to speak with her, if they catch him, both of them will be whipped.

He cannot do it. But he can see her again. Just to look, that is all. She intrigues him. Nothing has interested him in so long. The feeling lingers unusually in his chest.

Looking, simply looking. 

The master happily accepts his request to return to the temple to thank the Goddess, pleased with the gladiator's recent fight and the fresh coins in his purse. 

As Kylo climbs the hill he worries. He's come late, hoping to catch her, but perhaps the girl won't be there this time.

Leaving the guards by the door, he strides into the temple's belly, and spies a scuttling from the corner of his eye. He continues further, watching the space without seeming to observe. The pungent scent of fresh flowers mixes with burning fat and the soft tinkle of chimes can be heard as the evening’s breeze sweeps through the temple. He catches a glimpse of trailing gauze, the faint tread of footsteps, a flash of chestnut hair. It's her, he's certain of it but he keeps his body fixed ahead. He won't be tempted by the urge to search her out, to follow her into the shadows. He tells himself this, even as his feet change direction, he tells himself he won't go, but he's there beneath the arches, swerving in and out of the pillars searching for her.

Up close she is more a thing of wonder than he thought possible. The light material of her dress pinned around her curved waist and small breasts. Strands of her hair fall about her face, resting upon the bones of her shoulders. She is all soft curves and sweeps, she has no edges, no sharpness. To pass his hand over her would be as smooth as marble.

She stands trapped in a corner, her hands twisted behind her back, and she peers up at him through her eyelashes. 

They don't speak. The cost is too high but her eyes convey words he reads easily. Loneliness, fear, longing, lust. It is like peering at his own reflection.

A whipping is but a mere triviality compared to the penalty for touching her, the punishment for defiling her. The cost must be severe, for many men would pay vast fortunes to lie with a virgin priestess, sworn to remain untouched like the Goddess herself.

He'd lose a hand, he'd lose his life - buried alive in the dry earth outside the city where nobody could hear his cries.

He'd risk it for her, he thinks, to kiss her sweet mouth and taste her precious skin. But he is not a cruel man. His touch would kill her too. The Goddess is a ruthless mistress.

The fingers of his hand twitch but he steals his movements. He means to go but then she speaks.

"Take off your helmet," she says fiercely, although her bottom lip quivers with fear. "Let the Goddess see the face of the man that dares approach her loyal servant."

Bowing his head in shame, he shrugs off the metal mask. Sticky blood still soils his body and he feels unworthy and dirty before this divine being, the smell of her light and floral unlike his own revolting stench. He raises his fearful eyes to meet hers; defiant, unabashed, unafraid. Does she know what she's doing? What they will do to them?

"It is you," she whispers and he nods. 

She raises a hand towards him and he steps back. 

"This is too dangerous," he pleads. 

She lowers her hand. "Then go."

He digs his fingers into the hardness of his helmet, wishing his life were his own.

Then he goes.

….

A lady comes to visit him that evening. They pay good money to spend an evening in his company, some bringing him to their chambers, others preferring the saudiness of his prison. Tonight, the lady wants him against the bars of his door, where the guards outside can see their deeds and hear their words. 

She trails her bejeweled fingers over his chest, reliving the killings he made that day, her greed for his body clear. She wants to own this powerful creature, show him that no matter how strong he is, he must do as she says. 

The lady does not ask him to remove his helmet. They never do. He knows what they say about him. And he thinks of the girl. As the lady squirms against him, as he slams into her with disgust and self loathing, he imagines the girl. How tender she'd feel, how tight, how she'd look him in the eye and see him.

After the lady has taken her pleasure of him, she goes, leaving him a gift of fine meat and fruits. He cannot touch it, passing it out to the other slaves. His room is bare but comfortable and he does not share it. He has a bed at least, now he is a champion he no longer sleeps on the floor. 

But it's lonely. He learnt long ago that those who make friends die in the arena. It's every man for himself. And so he has no one to talk to, to confess his desires, to tell him that the way his thoughts keep wandering will lead to his death.

….

Rey cannot shake the image of the warrior from her mind, his eyes brimming with fear, yet the blood of fallen men streaked across his chest.

She cannot sleep so she rises at dawn to wash the feet of the Goddess, coated in the soot of the Temple's candles. The sun winks at the horizon as she enters the temple, golden ribbons streaking across the grey sky. To the East the sea shines like a darkened mirror and down at the base of the hill the city sprawls across the land, still and sleeping. Out to the West, she sees the great Stadium black against the sun's rise. She wonders if that is where he is, imagines what he is doing, hopes he thinks of her too.

She wants him so very badly; a woman who has never owned anything but the monotony of her daily tasks, and has never felt this loss until now. Her body aches in a way she has not known before, craving a dish both forbidden and poisonous. Yet it will give her no peace, 

When the Goddess' feet are clean, she slinks into the shadows and watches the people enter the temple - a small child with golden curls holding the hand of their mother, lovers walking closely with shoulders pressed together, an old woman with experiences written into the lines of her face. She will never have any of those things. What she would give to tell just one person the truth? That she desires more, that the Goddess demands too much, that the void inside eats her from within, growing larger and larger by the day. Soon she will be but a shell. 

But there is nobody to tell. Nobody to share the loneliness. These are thoughts unworthy of a priestess. It is sinful and wrong to long for these things. In the evening, she gets down on her hands and knees, her forehead forced into the hard stone of the temple floor and begs the Goddess for forgiveness. 

The days pass in these battles of confused emotions. She cannot perform her duties in the temple without watching for him. Continually her eyes flick to the entrance, everytime she hears a deep voice or heavy footsteps. It is never him, and she could weep with frustration.

Why? What does she think will happen? He had his chance, could have pushed her up against the wall and filled her emptiness. There was no one there. But he walked away. Perhaps he did not desire her - a scrawny girl of no importance. What would he want with her? 

Yet something in his eyes had told her that he did want her, that he'd been fighting that want away, that he stood there engrossed in a silent battle of wills.

To be wanted feels so very different. Nobody has ever wanted her before.

….

The tiger is hungry and desperate, his ribs visible through his matted fur. Kylo takes no pleasure in killing the poor creature, he takes no pleasure in any killing. But neither does it revolt him. He is numb to it now. Once, after he'd ended a life, he'd shake like a leaf in the wind and vomit out his guts, trying to remove the foul thoughts from his head. But that was long ago.

The tiger swipes at him with his huge paws, its claws razor-sharp knives, its teeth dangerous daggers. He dodges away, ducking beneath the great animal, spinning away. The crowd thunder with awe but he hears them not. The only sound he hears is that of his opponent, crouching low, ready to pounce. He jumps back as the tiger launches forward and drives his sword through the wretched thing's skull. 

_At least it will no longer suffer,_ he thinks, as he drags his sword back, and feels the heaviness at his shoulder, the numbness at his jaw. Today the blood that falls is his own. 

He staggers from the arena and someone calls for the master.

The old man, Snoke, inspects him with concern. "The wound must be seen to," he says to his man, a weedy redhead they say came from the Northern lands, "or it will fester and we will lose him."

"Who should I fetch?" the man asks.

"A priestess from the temple of the Goddess," Kylo says, his face still hidden beneath his ruined mask.

"Will they see him?" the man asks his master.

"The Goddess bestowed her favour upon me. She has given me her blessing. They cannot turn me away."

The master nods. No doubt he will make a donation for the priestesses to tend to his gladiator. They have healing powers from the Goddess that they will lend for a price.

"Take him there," the master says. 

The man with the hair like fire speaks with the high priestess. It feels like an age. Kylo's strength drains from his body, his wound throbs, and his vision frays around the edges. Eventually they lead him inside and lay him out on a wooden bed in the side room of the temple. They leave him there, his blood dripping rhythmically onto the floor.

When she comes, he thinks he must be dreaming or that he is dead. It can't possibly be her but it is. He struggles to sit up and she comes to kneel beside him, placing a bowl of water on the ground. She drops a cloth into the fragrant liquid and swishes it backward and forward with her fingers, inspecting him as she does.

They say not a word; there are people outside. They can hear them shuffling around, speaking in hushed tones. She raises up on her knees and lifts the fractured helmet from his head. He winces, the pain striking him in the gut, and her eyes travel over the gash that starts beneath his right eye and ends at his collar bone. Cupping his chin, she twists his head to one side and with her damp fingers traces the cut. Her touch is light, almost imperceivable, almost unbearable. His eyes drift closed and she helps him to lie back, then wringes out the soaked rag and carefully cleans the wound.

Her head is so close to his as she works that he feels the flitter of her breath upon his cheek, and his hand floats off the bed and onto her thigh, gripping her leg, holding her there, not wanting her to go. She pretends not to notice, neither shooing his hand away nor welcoming his touch, instead she works steadily, although at some point her own free hand comes to lie on his hard stomach. She pauses now and again to rinse the soiled cloth in the warm water and then she continues her work. The cut is deepest over his collar bone, but the pain is most acute near his eye. Here she dabs him with care, blushing as he examines her face.

"What is your name?" she whispers so low he strains to hear.

"Kylo Ren."

"No. Not the name they gave you - your real name."

"Ben." His hand creeps up her thigh. "What's yours?"

"Rey."

"Like the sunshine."

She nods.

He sweeps his thumb over the satin skin on the inside of her thigh. "You are more beautiful than the sun."

She rolls her eyes but smiles and pulls him up to sit again, wrapping a bandage over his broad shoulder and under his armpit, her fingers tripping over his skin as she does. He shivers every time she touches him, his breath hitching. Her fingertips so teasing and so tender. 

"I have been dreaming of you," he whispers into the delicate shell of her ear, tiny silver studs sparkling in the lobes. He would like to kiss her there, and the place where her skin meets the strands of her pinned hair. There her flesh is lighter, shaded from the sun. 

The pain in his shoulder sears and the room swoops. Is he dreaming? 

He reaches out to capture a loose coil of her hair between his fingers, bringing it to his lips, inhaling the smell of her. He closes his eyes, the world swerves, and she catches his heavy body as he slumps forward, lying him back down.

When he opens his eyes, hers are full of concern, her hand grasping at his stomach.

"You must rest," she tells him, staring intently at her work as she binds together the ends of the bandage, "regain your strength."

He chuckles darkly. "I do as my master commands. A gladiator's time is not his own."

"Neither is a priestess'." She raises her head and meets his eyes and it is like before, like he can reach right inside her mind and read her thoughts. What he would give to talk with her freely, to know everything about her?

Her fingertips still linger at the edges of the bandage, and he darent move, terrified it will break the moment. 

But time rushes away from them regardless, and in the distance he hears the clipped steps of the guards.

He covers her hands with his own, clutching them against his chest, conveying everything he wishes to say in the squeeze of his fingers.

It is all they can have. The last grains of sand tumble from the Goddess' grip and time halts them. 

She scrambles to her feet, picking up her cloth and the bowl, hurrying away as the guards come to collect him.

….

Alone in the evening, Rey stares at her hands, at her thigh, at the places her skin met with his and the heat of his flesh could be felt against hers. She thinks she almost sees the prints of his fingertips - visible only to her.

To be touched: she does not ever recall it, although she supposes somebody must have held her once as a baby, as a small child. Whoever they were, she can not call forth their face nor the sensation of their arms. Around her the people of the city touch each other with little care, oblivious to the gold at their fingertips.

His touch awakened her flesh, and now everything feels so sensitive, too much - the graze of her dress, the bind of her shoes, the chafe of her bangle. 

A realisation comes to her that they have kept her starving here, providing food and drink but denying her the feel of another person - as vital now, she sees, as air itself.

It is too cruel and she curses the Goddess for it, railing at her in the long silent evenings, scrubbing at the statue with violent force, describing the Gladiator's mournful face, his tender fingers, and his desperate voice. 

“How can you deny me this?” she says.

She goes to see the High Priestess.

“The gladiator must return,” she tells her, “his wound needs further care.”

They bring him back in the middle of the day when the temple heaves with people escaping the city's heat. She hovers by the doorway with her tray of jars, suddenly nervous, her insides somersaulting. From here, she can peer unseen at him. He seems just as anxious, sitting on the bed, his forearms leaning on his thighs, wringing his hands, his legs bouncing restlessly.

She breathes in deeply and steps inside the room.

He raises his head expectantly and his shoulders relax when he sees it is her and he lifts his helmet. 

"Rey," his mouth says, although there is no sound, The gash twists through his face, an angry welt, red and raw, the edges still weeping.

_He is lucky to be alive,_ she thinks, sitting beside him on the bed.

She points to the bandage and he nods; she may touch him again. A new sensation spins deep in her stomach, the anticipation shaking her hands.

"Does it hurt?" she asks quietly as she unwinds the torn strips of material, the constant thud of his heart distinct beneath the pads of her fingers. 

"No," he says but flinches as the last piece of bandage comes away.

She smiles, laughing silently as she shakes her head. "Liar."

His face is so fierce, so intense, as he watches her pull out the jar's stopper and scoop out some fat. His dark pupils follow her movements and his irises are like magic, dark in their centres and fading away at their edges, the colour seeming to dissolve into the whites. 

Between them his hand rests on the bed and when she starts to gently stroke the ointment along the seam of his wound his fingers mirror the movement, brushing her hip, and her breath quickens along with his. 

This time he is unshaven and the bristles rustle when her nails scrape over them and she can not help but stray from the cut to trail her fingers over his cheek, along his chin and to his parted mouth. His lips are something new, smoother than skin. She pulls his plump bottom lip down, her eyes exploring his teeth and his deep red gums.

Slowly, he closes his mouth, capturing her forefinger. A kiss. She feels her body wilt with a shudder so strong the bed shakes.

She leans into him, his grip tight on her hip bone, and rests her lips on his. 

"I am so alone," she whispers into his mouth, the confession running from her unbidden.

"You're not alone," he tells her.

….

The weeks pass. The people are fasting and the temple throngs with citizens eager to gain the ear of the Goddess. The deity is both warrior and scholar, compassionate and fierce, fair yet jealous. The Goddess understands the delights of a strong man and Rey cares not what they say, when she looks up into the frozen face of her Mistress, the all seeing deity who knows of her crimes and her thoughts, she does not see disapproval or rage.

The hunger from the denial of food mixes with her hunger for the gladiator. She longs to see him. Once, before they brought her here as a young child, she had belonged to the streets. She still remembers the alleyways, she still knows how to scurry about unseen like a rat. Could she go to him? Scuttle away and find him now? But it's just a silly fantasy, one she likes to run through her head as she relives his touch.

They will have to wait until the Goddess provides them with another opportunity.

The fasting ends with feasts and festivities. There will be more games and she waits late at the temple for him.

The night is hot when he comes, and the guards wait outside the temple doors enjoying the cool breeze that skirts around the hilltop. 

First he goes to the Goddess, offering her his bundle of gifts and prostrating at her feet. 

"Ben," she whispers, his name echoing around the temple walls. 

The helmet he wears has been mended and he removes it now, leaving it safely with the Goddess. Then he comes to find her, following her deep inside the blackness of the temple.

One lone candle sputters and spits low on the floor and their shadows are long extended figures moving swiftly towards one another.

In the darkness, his skin shimmers like moonlight and his new scar reminds her of cracks in marble.

"I am the grotesque monster they say I am now," he says.

Standing on her tiptoes, she presses her lips to the healing wound. "You were never human - what they say is true - but not quite. Your mother lay with a god not a beast. You are too beautiful to be human."

He laughs. "It is you who cannot be human." Grasping her hands in his, he pulls her in close. "If they catch us…."

"I do not care."

And so he spreads his cloak on the stone ground and she unhooks her dress, letting the thin material slither down her body, loosening the binding at her waist. Her breasts are the shape of ripe peaches, her nipples the colour of her lips. 

"Rey," he mutters as he reaches out and sweeps a finger down the arc of her breast ending at the peek of her hardened nipple, rubbing it between his forefinger and thumb.

A tiny whimper escapes her throat and he smothers the sound with his mouth, dragging her up into his arms.

Then she steps away and lies down naked on his cloak. Removing his belt, his skirt and sandals, he comes to lie with her, gliding his hands up and down her body until her lips quiver with want. She kisses him, desperate to still the nerves racing through her body, wanting to taste him and bite his fat lips. 

Quietly, his hand finds the curls between her legs, then her swollen wet lips and finally her untouched entrance. He knows how to satisfy a woman and he works his finger inside her, grinding the heel of his hand against her sensitive nub.

She tries her best to remain silent, but her body jerks and spasms, and her hand clenches at his stomach. While he is gentle, she is rough; her touches wild and frantic, his careful and considered. He drives her to the brink of insanity, her core throbbing with need and she pleads in his ear for him to take her until his restraint snaps. Pinning her small hands above her head, he climbs on top of her, parting her legs with his own, his hardness pressing against her thigh. 

"You are sure?" he asks.

"Please!" she begs, raising her hips, guiding him inside, full at last. The initial stretch has her clamping her teeth, but he's patient, waiting for her to adjust to him, whispering sweet words and kissing her neck with wet lips until she relaxes around him and she is struck by how perfectly their bodies meld together, how firmly he anchors her, how base it feels.

In his eyes, she reads everything she's ever wanted, all she needs. There's awe and amazement as if he can't believe this is really happening. She feels it too. She never knew it could be like this, that she could be so utterly consumed.

At first, his thrusts are shallow, ensuring she can take him, slow and steady and she can see the strain in his face, holding himself back.

"More," she says, wrapping her legs around him, digging her heels into his backside, forcing him deeper.

He groans like a tortured man.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"It feels good." 

She moans and his mouth becomes feverish at her neck, one hand grappling at her breast. He pumps into her, hard and fierce, hitting a spot each time that has her squealing with pleasure. 

There's a desperation to it now. From both of them. The frustration, the longing, the want overflowing, overbrimming, cascading and free. He pounds her into the ground, taking her to the edge, seeing her through her release as she screams his name. The sound of what they are doing, their crazed noises, ring out around the temple like a bell. She doesn't care, the feelings crashing through her are so intense she's certain she's already died.

….

One taste of the priestess at the temple was not enough. He'd hoped having her would drive her from his mind, but she's penetrated the very being of him, buried herself deep below his skin and into his blood. 

He's never been concerned for his life before. Now he wishes to live it with her. But how? 

He must win his freedom. A game is called for the birthday of the Emperor's mother. If he can please the Emperor and his Mother, they must reward him with liberty.

For days before he plans it in his head, runs through how he will do it. He will have to give them a performance like never before. Show his speed, his skill, and his strength. In his chamber at night, he practices the moves, twirling his arms about him with an imagined sword, lunging and driving at the empty space around him. The guards gather about his door, watching him, cheering at the strange display and he knows he will succeed.

When the time comes he slays men like worthless cattle. Taunting and torturing them. The crowd is crazed with blood lust, the noise in the arena so loud, the Gods themselves must hear. If they see him too, if he pleases them, will they help him?

He slits the throat of the last man who collapses onto his knees with a red fountain arcing from his neck. The gladiator stalks forward, finishing the man with a swing of his sword and lifting his severed head for the people to see.

The crowd cheers and he tosses the head away before falling to his knees in front of the Emperor. Outside he holds the pose of the ruthless warrior, but within his heart leaps from his chest to pound in his throat and his stomach sloshes with acid bile.

The Emperor defers to his mother, who peers down at the figure of the warrior. She stands and walks out from the shade and into the light. The stadium falls silent and he hears his own breath rasping in his ears.

Whispers whip around the people as the Emperor's mother, wrapped in purple muslin, inspects the dead men. She lifts her head towards the people.  
He squeezes shut his eyes, his jaw tight with tension, and prays to the goddess. 

"Give me this one thing, please," he whispers. "Please!" 

Is she there in the breeze? Tiptoeing among the bodies? Resting her hand on his shoulder? Her touch light? Does her voice spiral in the ear of the Emperor's mother?

Perhaps.

For the woman gestures to a slave girl at her side and then lifts in her hands the wooden sword and palms of freedom.

He sighs in relief, hot tears running from his eyes, hidden beneath his helmet.

….

The binding around her stomach grows tighter. Nobody notices yet. She wears her dress a little looser, feeling strange flutterings in her pelvis.

When they discover the truth, she won't tell them who put the child in her belly. The gladiator is a free man now, gone far from the city. She won't let them cage him again.

If it were only her, she would find some poison and end her life before they take it from her, but maybe they will let the babe live. A gift from the Gods for some childless couple.

So she continues. Sweeping through the temple as the autumn sun plunges down into the underworld, extinguishing candles with a pinch of her fingers. The flames smoulder her skin with an angry hiss, faint whisps of smoke curling in the dusk.

Outside the grey sky thunders and rain races down to stream over the hilltop. The temple is empty and cold.

She hears the wet slap of sandals at the temple entrance and the heavy door draws back.

It is the gladiator, dressed in a free man's robes, his face uncovered, his jet hair sleek to his head.

He holds out his hand to her.

"Come with me," he says.

**Author's Note:**

> I did enjoy writing this one :-) so let me know what you think. I'm always curious to know and grateful for all the love, kudos and comments.


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